


I will always come back to you.

by what_am_i_even_doing_tho



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Boromir Lives, Brotherly Love, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Battle of the Pelennor Fields, Reunions, mentioned - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:21:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25326052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_am_i_even_doing_tho/pseuds/what_am_i_even_doing_tho
Summary: The Son of Gondor has returned home.
Relationships: Boromir (Son of Denethor II) & Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 64





	I will always come back to you.

**Author's Note:**

> I am tentatively back to writing. Still have that writer's existential crisis going on, so we'll see how posting this goes. I haven't had the itch to write since I stopped, but this idea was just too enticing, and I actually had a lot of fun writing it. This is also my first Lord of the Rings fanfiction, despite the fact that Tolkien's stuff has been my main obsession since like middle school, which is probably at least part of the reason as to why it was so much fun. Just a side note that this is mostly based off of the movies because I haven't read the books in donkey's ears.
> 
> This is the new canon. Anyone who says otherwise can fight me.

With great heaving breaths, Boromir at last lowered his sword and surveyed the battlefield around him. The carnage seemed to go on forever, and his heart ached at the thought of all his fallen brothers. So many good men had been lost this day, so many strong and compassionate warriors. So many brothers and sons and fathers who would never return home, never see their families again. The battle was won, however, and all those who had perished could rest easy, knowing that they had not fought and died in vain. 

Boromir’s gaze then turned to the glittering white city before him, heart aching for an entirely different reason. How he had longed to look upon his beloved home; the desire to return had been consuming his every thought ever since he first started his journey all those months ago. Despite his weariness, a smile tugged at his lips, and he basked in the shadow of his fair city. His eyes glistened with joy as they scanned over it from afar, slowly traveling up until they at last stopped at the pearly Tower of Ecthelion, standing tall and proud, watching over their victory at her feet.

And to think that he almost didn’t make it this far, almost didn’t make it back. His memories of the event were hazy, but Boromir could at the very least remember how close he had come to losing his life that day. Had that foul Uruk-hai’s aim been true, he would not be here to see this victory of Men, to see the White City still standing, battered but unbroken. The pain and severity of his injuries had brought him to the brink of death, and Aragorn had said that it was a miracle he had even survived. Were it not for the ranger’s skill in healing, Boromir would have surely passed into the unknown, having never seen his beloved city again.

There had been many trials on this quest, many obstacles to overcome before the Son of Gondor could at last return home. Once healed and secure in the knowledge that Merry and Pippin were safe, he could have very well left his companions in Rohan and answered the longing in his soul. They would’ve understood, knowing how badly Boromir missed his city and his brother. That was not something he could bring himself to do, however. He couldn’t abandon his friends in their time of need, not after all they had gone through together. The Captain of the White Tower was many things, but a man without honor was not one of them; as much as every fiber of his being yearned to go home, he knew that he had to stay.

So stayed he had. Through the seemingly hopeless Battle of the Hornburg, through the search for aid in the frightening Paths of the Dead, Boromir had stayed. He had fought beside the brave Men of Rohan, and he had fought beside his king. Among friends and strangers, living and dead, Boromir battled for freedom and hope, and to protect the ones he loved. The longing in his heart never quieted, never lessened, but it only served to spur him on. He would not allow himself to be felled by neither sword nor arrow, not before he could once again see his home, not before he could hold his brother in his arms. And now, after much blood had been shed, he had finally returned.

Rolling his shoulders and sheathing his sword, Boromir took one more second to revel in the beauty that was Minas Tirith before turning away and wandering the battlefield, looking for any who may be in need of aid. The moans of the wounded and dying made his heart weep, and he did whatever he could to help. He bandaged what wounds he could and said a prayer whenever he came across one of the many who had died. When he found those too badly injured to survive, he sat by their sides, keeping them company until they had passed.

As he made his way across the blood-soaked ground, he noticed with increasing worry that he had not once seen Faramir, neither during the battle nor in the aftermath. Before the worry could take hold, though, Boromir was quick to calm himself down. It was a rather large battle, he reasoned. Faramir was likely elsewhere on the battlefield, or he was inside the city itself. With fond remembrance, he recalled what a fierce warrior his baby brother was. Perhaps he was not as skilled as Boromir himself, better suited was he to books and scrolls than the glory of battle, but he was still quite the force to be reckoned with.

Boromir repeated this to himself, the mantra becoming almost a prayer, as he continued to offer his assistance where he could. The day wore on, the sun now hanging low over the west horizon, and all who were still living were called to make camp. With staggering steps, Boromir made his way past the heartbreakingly large pile of the dead, on towards the front gate of the city. A calm settled over him the moment he stepped through the broken door and over the threshold, soothing away some of the aches and sorrows of the day. The Son of Gondor had come home.

A wide smile spread on Boromir’s face, even as he saw the destruction the fighting had wrought. His people were strong; they would rebuild, of that he had no doubt. Feeling distinctly lighter, he carried on up the levels of the city, calling to those faces he recognized. Faramir had always been better with names, seemingly knowing the name of everyone who worked in the citadel and all the members of the Tower Guard, but this did not dampen his joy at seeing those who had survived. With great merriment, he embraced his brothers in arms and talked with them as he made his way up.

Upon reaching the citadel, he parted ways with the others and stepped inside. A giddy excitement filled Boromir, feeling sure that if his brother was anywhere, it was probably in the throne room, informing their father of all that had transpired during the battle. How good it would be to look upon his brother’s face again. How good it would be to hold him after all these months apart. All would be right with the world, for Boromir and Faramir of Gondor would be together at last. Grin still firmly in place, he pushed open the doors and sauntered in.

“Father, I have returned!” He called out, voice booming in the large room. Boromir glanced to the Steward’s chair and stopped short when he saw it empty. Looking around, he realized that he was entirely alone. His smile dropped, instantly replaced with a concerned frown. Where was everyone? Footfalls sounded behind him, and he whirled around, hand resting on the pommel of his sword. Gandalf stood before him, a little bruised and bloody, and he wore a sad smile on his face.

Boromir let go of his sword, but his stance remained rigid, “Where is my father? Where is my brother?” A beat passed, and the wizard remained silent. Worry gnawed at him fiercely, taking the form of anger as he demanded, “Where are they!?”

“The Steward of Gondor has passed,” Gandalf said, voice solemn. Boromir staggered back at the news, but before he could ask what happened, the wizard continued. “His madness took him shortly after the fighting began.”

A shuddering breath left Boromir, and he squeezed his eyes shut. He allowed himself a moment to mourn the man his father had once been. In truth, he had died long ago, becoming someone he could no longer recognize, someone cruel and cold, someone mad. It had been many years since his father could’ve been called a good man, although he had never really been the kind-hearted father that Boromir and his brother had craved.

With a start, he opened his eyes. His brother. Gandalf had said nothing of his brother. Did that mean…?

“And Faramir?” He questioned softly, fear gripping his heart like an iron band. “What of him?” Again, Gandalf was silent, but Boromir could see the pity in the wizard’s eyes. 

He looked on pleadingly, taking a tentative step forward, “Gandalf?”

A tense silence followed, and when at last Gandalf spoke, it was with words that chilled Boromir to the bone.

“He is in the Houses of Healing.”

``````````````````````````````````````

Boromir skidded to halt just outside of what he had been told was his brother’s room. The moment the wizard had told him where to find Faramir, he had dashed off, desperate to see him. Now that only a door stood between them, Boromir felt anxiety build up inside him. He hadn’t bothered to ask what state he would find the younger in, only caring about getting to his side as quickly as he could. What would he find within those walls? How grave were his injuries? Would his brother even be alive still? Surely, Gandalf would have told him if Faramir was at death’s door?

But he hadn’t given him the chance, had he? Now Boromir had no idea what awaited him, and the only way to find out was to open that door. He feared what he would find, however, and didn’t know if he had the strength to see for himself. A quiet scoff escaped him at the thought; he was Boromir, Son of Denethor II, Captain of the White Tower and now the Steward of Gondor. He would not let something as petty as a fear for the worst stand between him and his baby brother.

Shoulders set and head held high, he reached for the handle and opened the door. The first thing he saw was a small candle sitting on a desk in the room, the feeble flame barely casting any light. Outside a window he saw the moon had risen, and his eyes followed the trail of moonlight filtering in until they settled upon a form in the bed. Boromir’s heart skipped a beat at the gentle rise and fall of his brother’s chest, the evenness letting him know that he was merely asleep. 

With the intent of sitting at Faramir’s bedside until he awoke, he stepped into the room and winced when he kicked the door with his foot. A sleepy groan sounded from the bed, and Boromir watched as his brother’s eyes slowly opened. They widened when they saw him standing in the doorway, and he carefully sat up.

“I’m dreaming,” Faramir whispered hoarsely. “This must be a dream, for my brother is far away from here, somewhere I cannot go.”

A soft smile on his face, Boromir chuckled quietly, “This is no dream, little brother. I am here.”

Faramir scrunched his brow in thought, eyes now taking on a sad glint, and Boromir’s mirth died. That was not the reaction he had been expecting. Was his brother cross with him? Had he done something wrong? He couldn’t understand how that was possible seeing as how he’d only just arrived, but perhaps that was the problem; maybe Faramir was upset that he had taken so long to come home.

His musing was interrupted when Faramir spoke again, his soft voice contrasting harshly with his bitter tone, “I see… Then my wounds were more serious than we thought, and I have passed on to join you in the afterlife. It is strange, though, that my injuries still cause me pain, even here in the land of the dead. I thought death was supposed to be peaceful, free of sorrow and suffering.”

Boromir gaped silently at his brother, not quite comprehending what had just been said, and Faramir shook himself lightly before giving him a gentle smile, “No matter, at least we are together again. It is good to see you. I have missed you more than words can describe.”

Still silent with shock, Boromir stared at Faramir as if he had gone mad. Why couldn’t he see that Boromir was really there, that they were both still alive? The truth was literally right in front of him, and yet he seemed blinded to it. How could he show his brother that this was real? In a flash, a thought came to him, and he stomped over to Faramir’s bedside, hackles raised like a disgruntled cat. The younger Captain’s eyes followed his path warily, and Boromir felt all his frustration and sorrow bubble up to the surface, mingling with the leftover adrenaline from the battle.

He had come so far, been through so much, and at last here he was, standing before the brother he had missed so dearly, and he thought that they were dead? That simply wouldn’t do. With one swift motion he brought his arm down and cuffed Faramir on the back of the head none too kindly, just like he had when they were children. An indignant squawk escaped him, and a hand shot up to rub at the sore spot.

A questioning glance was directed at Boromir, who huffed angrily, “Feel that, brother? Is that proof enough that you are not yet dead?” Faramir opened his mouth to respond, but a fierce glare leveled his way was enough to silence him. “I did not escape death for you to sit there in denial, you twit. I did not come running to your side the moment the wizard told me where you were, half out of my mind with worry and fear only to find you well, for you to claim we had both perished. I am here, I am alive. As are you.”

For a moment, Faramir just looked at him, eyes narrowed in suspicion. Then, as slowly as the sun’s first light creeping over the horizon, his expression morphed into one of hesitant relief. With a shaking hand, he reached up to touch his brother’s arm. Upon making contact, a startled gasp escaped him, and his eyes filled with tears.

“You… You’re really here?” He asked with cautious hope, voice watery. “You’re alive?”

Just like that, Boromir’s anger left him in a dizzying rush, and he smiled at his brother softly, “I am, Faramir. I promise.” Faramir’s bottom lip quivered slightly, and then he was flinging himself at his older brother, body trembling with silent tears. Boromir wrapped his arms around the younger tightly and felt his own eyes begin to burn. This. This is what he had been missing all those long months away from home, with only the memory of his brother to keep him company when he would have much preferred the real thing. 

Amidst his crying, Faramir spoke quietly, voice cracking occasionally, “I thought I had lost you. My Rangers found the Great Horn, cleaved in two, and I thought you had left me behind. And Father… We thought he was mad before, but hearing news of your supposed death sent him over the brink. He was so much worse. Nothing I did ever pleased him, no matter how hard I tried, and he told me… He told me that he wished I had died in your stead.” A shudder ran through the younger’s body at that, and Boromir tightened his hold, cursing their deceased father silently.

Out loud, he said, “Well, I’m glad that it hadn’t been you, little brother. I would not wish what I have been through on anyone, least of all you.” He paused a beat. “Father was always wrong about you, you know. He could not see your true strength, but I can.”

Boromir leaned back and used one hand to lift Faramir’s head, needing him to look into his eyes as he said these next words, “I am so proud of you, Faramir, so proud of you for making it this far, and for the man you have become.”

A small sniffle escaped his younger brother, but it was accompanied by a tearful smile, “I’m so happy that you’re here, that you’re okay. Pippin told us how bravely you had fought to defend him and his kinsman from the Uruk-hai, and how he had watched you fall after taking not one, but three arrows. Then, he said that, beyond all reason, he had seen you alive and well at Isengard. Father wouldn’t listen, though, so caught in his madness was he.” Faramir’s smile dropped here, and his face twisted in sorrow.

“I wanted to believe him,” He continued, tone now somber. “I wanted to believe that you hadn’t been killed, but I couldn’t. I think it would’ve been too painful to know that you had survived, only to risk finding out that some Orc had felled you so close to home. It was easier, safer, to believe that you had died protecting the Halflings.” The younger shook his head gently, a now dazzling grin adorning his tired features. “But I see now, that you are indeed well, and it feels as if a shadow has been lifted from my mind. Thank you, brother, for coming back to me.”

“I always will,” Boromir responded, beaming down at the one who meant most to him in all of Middle-earth. “I will always come back to you.”

Shuffling forward, Boromir then sat on the edge of the bed, pulling Faramir closer. He breathed in the calming scent of his baby brother and felt a peace like no other wash over him in soothing waves. Minas Tirith was his home, and he would always love this fair city and her people, but here, with his brother, was where he truly belonged. It was good to be back.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed!


End file.
